


Golden Gloves

by linwesingollo



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-17
Updated: 2012-01-17
Packaged: 2017-10-29 16:50:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linwesingollo/pseuds/linwesingollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some of Frodo’s thoughts on the eve of his journey to the Grey Havens.<br/>The recipient asked for the following themes: “There’s more to Bag End than a tidy kitchen”, and/or “Time and tides carry us to other places.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Golden Gloves

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Waymeet Challenge.

20 September, 1421

 

It was drawing close to mid-afternoon when Frodo finally put aside his quill and blotted the ink on the large open book spread out before him.

 

It’s finished at last...

 

He rose slowly from his chair and rubbed his cramped hand, then closed the book and bound the red covers with a leather thong. The dried leaves of long-faded Morning Glory vines rattled plaintively against the window and the sun, though still strong, had a melancholy slant to it now. Frodo’s spirits continued their long slow slide downward and he took a deep breath in a vain attempt to arrest it. He stood for a moment, contemplating the view from the large, round library window. There was still plenty of daylight left, enough to allow for one last indulgence.

 

I must find Sam…

 

He left the library to find the low, musical humming that had subtly shaped his last sentences. It was coming from the kitchen. He followed it but stopped short in the doorway. Sam’s head was bent over an array of silverware spread neatly on a clean flour sack on the kitchen table. He watched as Sam finished with the cold meat fork, lined it up next to the cheese knife, and then picked up the berry spoon.

 

My dear Sam…You’ve always loved the silver set, especially the berry spoon.

 

He watched the moment of thoughtful contemplation, then the dipping of a sponge into the jar of silver paste. Square, gloved hands set to work tenderly rubbing the large honeybee embossed in the center of the bowl. The autumnal sun limned his hair and set individual curls in relief, bringing out the shadows and manifold shades of gold much in the same way his hands were busily removing the tarnish on Frodo’s berry spoon so that the silver came through while still preserving the earned patina. Even from his vantage point, Frodo could tell that the sturdy, sun-browned face was relaxed and content and warmed by a slight smile as he softly hummed the polishing cloth into the wide, shallow bowl of the spoon.

 

How well you fit into Bag End, Sam…How well you’ve fit into my life…

 

Sam had gladly bound himself to the tedious routine of silver-polishing, just as he had gladly bound himself to his master’s peculiar ways. Frodo was indifferent to the silver and no doubt would have left it forgotten in on the sideboard to tarnish shamefully. He preferred to use the plainer, everyday set, when he thought about it at all, though in the last year Sam had grown stubborn and insisted on pulling out the fancy ware, arguing that it did no good sitting in its oaken chest and wasn’t it a shame to let such fine pieces hide away unseen and unused? Frodo enjoyed giving into Sam’s occasional stubborn whims, though not without first offering a half-hearted argument just for sport. The silver was rather beautiful; elaborately and cunningly embossed with twining flowers and impossible bees. It had been a morning-gift from Frodo’s long-father Balbo to his new bride, Berylla, and handed down to him from Bilbo.

 

I should have listened to Sam sooner and used it more often, just to please him…

 

Sam had always seen to the small details of Bag End, the sewing up of loose waistcoat buttons and the sweeping up of the forgotten corners in Frodo’s indifferent and preoccupied wake. It left him feeling unaccountably foolish next to his gardener. If Sam saw more worth in the small tasks than he did, then he was certain some fault in himself prevented him from seeing it or at least bothering to attend to it in due time. Lately, his mind had always been too apt to get lost in the past while recounting their travels in the pages of his book to take notice of the small and gradual unravelings of his smialhold.

 

The walls of Bag End have closed in on me and I feel myself slipping away. You will take my place and be its rightful owner now, Sam, and the laughter of your children will fill these rooms.

 

Frodo restively clenched his hands. As much as he drew some comfort from the solid homely scene before him, tidy kitchens and polished silver were the furthest cares from his mind. Indeed, all smial-keeping tasks now seemed a waste of precious time. Where had it all gone? Today, for one last time, he wanted to roam the old familiar paths winding ‘round the Shire hills, but he hid his impatience just a little while longer and waited, waited, letting his eyes travel the bold slope of his gardener’s shoulders instead.

 

How beautiful you are to me, Sam…

 

The low humming stopped as if listening for something, but then resumed where it had left off as Sam turned the spoon over and began busily worked the buffing cloth into the spoon’s heel.

 

Nearly every day together, I learned something new about you. Those gloves...I remember the day when you announced to me your need for new gloves…

 

One day out of the blue, Sam had declared that he needed “polishin’ gloves”. After days of some no-so-discrete rummaging in Bag End’s back closets and storerooms for a bit of flannel, Sam had traced an outline of his hands on the cloth and then painstakingly cut the material and sewed them himself. He had informed him that they gave the silver an extra bit of shine as he handled them. Frodo wondered where exactly he had gotten the flannel from. The cloth looked vaguely familiar, but he hadn’t noticed anything missing from his drawers or closets, though he strongly suspected they had been plundered. Probably some old discarded nightclothes of his.

 

You always saw use and beauty in everything. You never did like to see anything wasted...

…Learning your ways has been like finding bits of Bilbo’s dragon-coin in the back of an old desk drawer or wooden chest, or inexplicably nestled in the linens just when I supposed it to have been long gone. There was always more to you than met the eye…

 

He had always saved the coins and tucked them in his pockets to idly finger later. It had once occurred to him that perhaps Bilbo had hidden them away on purpose to delight his young exploring nephew. It was the sort of odd and thoughtful thing Bilbo would do.

 

Dear Uncle, how I’ve missed you, and now I feel you drawing closer…

 

…and the slow, rhythmic beat in his chest stumbled and floundered helplessly between anticipation of gain and dread of loss.

 

Beginnings and endings. Leaving and returning. Losing and finding. Time and no time.

The tide comes in and the tide goes out…

And I will go with it…

 

Last night, his dreams had been full of the sound of wind and water and a strange ship sailing on the wild cries of seagulls, drawing ever nearer. He had opened his eyes early this morning to a keen yearning coupled with a profound sense of loss…

 

It has to be…

 

Sam’s hand faltered in its work at the sound of his sigh but he didn’t turn around. Of course, Sam knew his master was watching him, had known it all along. Frodo forced a smile into his voice.

“Come, Sam. Put down the silver. The day is still fine and the Shire waits. You’ve been at the tidying and polishing all morning and I at my book. It’s time we did a little wall-propping.”

Without bothering to look up at Frodo, Sam gave the berry spoon a few deliberate finishing licks of the buffing cloth, but Frodo caught the edge of a smile flickering upwards at the corner.

“Time for wall-propping” used to be an old joke between them. It’d been a long time since either of them had done much ‘wall-propping’, let alone joked about it.

”I shan’t call it the end, till I’ve cleared up the mess,” Sam smoothly dead-panned on cue.

With that, he finally got up from the chair and began to purposefully gather the silver with brisk measured motions.

 

But it is the end, Sam, and this is one mess that even you won’t be able to clean up…

 

“I can’t rest easy ‘til everythin’s in its rightful place. You know that, Mr. Frodo. There’s still the kitchen to be swept, the ashes cleaned out, and the jam jars to be put up…”

 

I do know that you have so much more to be and to do. Soon, I’ll be in my rightful place as you are already in yours…

 

One by one, Sam placed the pieces of the polished silver into their proper places in the old oak chest as he listed all the chores that awaited him. Where there were messes you could always be certain Sam wasn’t far behind cleaning them up.

 

I wonder how many messes I’ve thoughtlessly left behind for you to clean up, taking it for granted that you would…

 

Sam continued to ignore him; focusing his attention on completing the task set before him as he always did.

 

The evening draws nearer...

He’ll reach for the broom next if I don’t speak up…

 

“That day will come soon, I promise you, Sam. The silver and the kitchen can wait a little longer,” he said with as much offhand authority as he could muster.

“You’ve had no end of messes to clean up since we’ve returned to the Shire. A little wall-propping now and then is important too. Come with me. I promise there’ll be an inn and a beer at the end of it.”

 

And we’ll laugh and share a pint together one last time…

 

Sam turned to him with a faintly amused but appraising glance. Ever since their return to the Shire, Frodo had taken to locking himself away in the library for hours and days on end, writing of their adventures, writing an account of “The Great Danger” as he put it. Apparently, the master of Bag End seemed to think that the kitchen cleaned and the silver polished itself as well as the vegetables jumping out of the earth and marching themselves into the root cellar. He’d even forget to eat if Sam Gamgee didn’t see to his meals. No matter. He was content to see to Bag End while Frodo wrote, but it was rare for Frodo to request his company on one of his solitary rambles. His master almost always walked alone now. It worried him.

His brow furrowed as he looked at Frodo standing restively in the doorway. He was too lost in his thoughts these days and too often he caught him looking troubled and much too far inside himself. Something was amiss.

“Is the book finished?”

“Nearly.”

 

My part in the story is finished now but yours will go on, my dearest Sam…

 

Sam closed the lid of the silver chest with a soft click.

“It’s your hand again, isn’t it? You’ve been writin’ too long.”

Without waiting for an answer, Sam quickly stripped off the flannel polishing gloves and let them fall to the table. He reached over to cup Frodo’s maimed hand between his own. The full healing would take time, he reminded himself. All he needed was time…

Frodo closed his eyes and Sam heard him sigh almost imperceptibly.

“I don’t know why it should hurt so still. The wound has healed over cleanly, but sometimes I can still feel the weight of the Ring…”

 

I’m going away to find rest at last, Sam, but how shall I find it without you at my side? You always helped me find my way…

 

Sam patiently warmed Frodo’s hand in his own two hands. It used to embarrass him when Sam would do this for him, but now he was merely grateful. His hand always felt whole and healed again in his gardener’s sturdy hands; hands that had tirelessly planted and mended and soothed and cleaned and carried his master’s burdens. He never told him what his touch had meant to him, how it had kept him going when he had wanted to give up. No need for words, perhaps. Sam knew.

 

Oh, Sam…you make me feel whole again…

 

They stood together in the doorway until the ghost-ache gradually eased away and Sam gently released his hand. Frodo opened his eyes. The painful sense of time pushing and pressing down on him had receded a bit in Sam’s hands. But even Sam wouldn’t be able to keep time at bay forever…

He managed a smile.

 

Not yet. I won’t tell him yet. Let us have this time together. He will know soon enough…

 

“Ready for wall-propping now, Sam?”

Sam’s hands had planted themselves on his hips, elbows akimbo, and there was a stubborn set to his face.

“Aye, but mebbee you ought to rest first. I’ve turned down the bed for your afternoon nap….”

 

No…I’ve been asleep for far too long now…

 

“No nap for me today, Sam. I’m fine now and I feel a need to stretch my legs. Go prepare a walking lunch for us.”

Frodo waited until Sam left for the pantry to pack food for their walk before he picked up the flannel gloves from the table. Like soft golden shells of Sam’s hands they were, still warm from their owner, the stitching neat and fine. After a moment’s hesitation, he tucked them in his jacket pocket, feeling slightly foolish and wondered why.

 

The leaving ought to be complete. It’s better that way…

 

He hadn’t planned on taking anything with him. But there was no time left for feeling foolish. No time left at all, though perhaps at last the time for foolish things had come ~ the time when small things were writ large. Hadn’t small hobbit-folk prevailed over Sharkey at the very last?

 

Just one small token…

 

His hand lingered on the gloves hidden in his pocket, fingering them like Bilbo’s gold coins. Tomorrow, Sam would be the new master of Bag End and the silver would get the use it deserved. He would also miss his master sorely and wonder where he had mislaid his polishing gloves.

But he’d make another pair and now he was calling for him from the front hallway.

 

I’m coming, Sam…

 

The tide returned with a roar.


End file.
